


Don't cry baby, day will be dawning

by merle_p



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-13
Updated: 2008-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam breaks down, and Bobby is there to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't cry baby, day will be dawning

**Author's Note:**

> Written September 2008.  
> Set after the end of the third season.  
> _Disclaimer:_ Not mine. The title is taken from "Moonshine Lullaby" by Irving Berlin.

When Bobby finally finds them, Dean is dead. Dean is dead, Ruby is gone, and Sam … well, Bobby doesn't know what Sam is, he just knows that he's never seen him like this. Even when he was _dead_, he looked more alive than he does now.

He's kneeling on the floor that shows the scratch marks of enormous paws, cradling Dean's torn body against his chest, and after what seems like an eternity, he raises his head and looks at Bobby, and for a moment, Bobby thinks that he's gone insane.

Then he says "He's dead" in this horrible voice, and Bobby knows that he hasn't lost his mind, but he has lost everything else.

***

He was such a sweet kid. Of course, Dean was cute too, but he was cocky even then, and his attitude tended to distract people from his freckles and long lashes.

Sam was – adorable, with dark curls and big eyes and a snub nose, and Bobby remembers thinking about seedy motels, about truck stops in the middle of nowhere, about rough men who had a wife at home but still liked a small rosy mouth to rub their cock against once in a while, and he remembers worrying.

He was tempted to talk to John about alternatives, about relatives or foster families, but one look at Dean's determined face, and he dismissed the thought. Nothing was going to happen to Sam, he told himself, as long as he had Dean.

***

Back at his house, Bobby makes Sam sit down in his miserable, shabby kitchen and pours whiskey into a water glass. Sam drowns it, then reaches for the bottle and just keeps drinking. Bobby lets him. Sam probably hasn't eaten for thirty hours, hasn't slept for even longer, and he will be wasted in no time, but Bobby figures it's what he needs.

Dean – Dean's body, his corpse – is spread out on the table in the living room, under a blanket that Sam covered him with, carefully, as if he was putting a little child to bed.   
Bobby is going to burn him tomorrow. He knows that Sam will want to wait, will not want to give up what's left of his brother, but Bobby still remembers Dean watching over Sam's body for days, remembers what came out of it, and he vows that he's not going to let something like that happen again.

But not tonight. Tonight, they are drinking together, until Sam looks like he's about to pass out. Then Bobby takes away the bottle and tells Sam that it's time to go to bed, because he knows that he would never be able to drag him upstairs, and he can hardly let him sleep on the couch, with Dean's body on the table only a few feet away.

"He's dead, Bobby", Sam whispers again when Bobby pulls the blankets over him, just like Sam did with Dean before. At this moment, he looks like he did when Bobby saw him the first time, five years old and scared out of his mind, and if Bobby's heart hadn't already been broken beyond repair so many times, it would certainly break now.

***

He doesn't really sleep. But he's exhausted and drunk and not young anymore, so he's been dozing fitfully for a while when the door to his bedroom opens, and it takes him a second to realize that it's not a dream.

Sam is standing in the doorway, his face hidden in the shadows. A moonbeam is lightening the left side of his body, pale skin, a naked shoulder, dark blue boxer shorts revealing a long leg.

"Sam, what …", Bobby says, his voice rough and husky from the alcohol and the night, and his body feels weird, tense, as if it's waiting for something he can't name.

Sam doesn't answer. Doesn't move, for a few seconds, and then he crosses the room, and is suddenly close, too close, half kneeling on the edge of Bobby's old double bed that he once shared with a woman he was married to. Sam's eyes are wide and dark under unruly strands of hair, and there's blood on his chin where he bit his lip. "Please", he says, sounding so desperate and lost, and suddenly, breathing becomes difficult.

***

His wife has been dead for over twenty years, and after he scrubbed her blood off his hands, he was reluctant, afraid, to touch a woman's flesh. There have been a few over the years, a middle-aged waitress at a bar in Ohio, a widowed motel-owner in Washington State, but they were always of his age, or close, with breasts starting to sag, with fine wrinkles around their eyes, always as lonely as he was and as starving for another human's touch. He never looked at girls, hardly noticing short skirts and pert breasts, has never been one of those men.

But he remembers a day, years ago, summer hot and dusty, John off to wheresoever and the boys left in his care. Remembers them turning on the hose and running through the water, Sam taking off his soaked shirt and shaking his head, hair flying.

Remembers turning away, fleeing into the safety of his house, and later, in the shower, jerking off for the first time in years, trying not to think about long hair, long limbs and an even longer neck, fragile spine pointing towards small, firm buttocks, flexing under the wet fabric of threadbare and too tight shorts.

***

Sam tastes like alcohol and stale breath, and still, at the same time, he tastes so sweet, like youth and beauty and innocence, despite everything he's gone through. Bobby knows that this boy is a man, who's fought and killed and fucked, but he still feels like a pedophile, like the men at the truck stops he once worried about, ages ago, when he dips his tongue between soft, pliant lips.

For a second, he wonders what Dean would say, if he would kill him for this, even wonders, fleetingly, if Dean was once where he's now, but Dean is dead, dead, and Sam is coming alive under his hands and his mouth, and he can't stop.

***

Bobby knows that he isn't handsome, never was and certainly isn't now, after years of carelessness and neglect, with bad teeth, dirt under his finger nails that never really goes away, and a beer belly from decades of fast food and too much liquor.

But beauty is not what Sam came for. Sam is begging for salvation, absolution, for the feeling of _something_, and he can try to give him that, at least for tonight. Sam swallows his kisses like they are communion wafers, surrenders to the touch of his hands, to the burn of his beard against his skin, opens up for him unresistingly, suppliantly.

***

Bobby is an old-fashioned guy, and he's never done it like this – not with a woman, and certainly not with a man. He's not ignorant enough not to reach for the old Vaseline jar in his night stand drawer, but still, he's fumbling, he's drunk, his hands are calloused and rough. It has to hurt, but Sam doesn't seem to care, and to his shame, Bobby doesn't really care either, too lost in the sight before him, the perfect body under him, the breathtaking heat around him, drawing him in and holding him there.

No condoms, and what the hell, there are demons out there who are after them, and they've both lost too much already to care, and Bobby thinks that this might be his very last chance to do it like this, skin on skin, pulse against pulse.

It's almost too much and he's babbling, Sam's name against his white shoulder, his hard nipples, his soft hair. Sam is choking out Bobby's name, in between Dean's, and Jessica's, and his father's, sobbing and arching into him, and when Bobby comes, the world is flashing black and white, hell fire and heaven before his eyes.

***

Sam is barely conscious when Bobby pulls out of him, come leaking out and running down his trembling thighs. He doesn't move when Bobby cleans him up, when he tucks a clean blanket around him, not when he gets dressed and leaves the room. Bobby climbs down the stairs slowly, feeling too old and tired to take even one more step. He moves past the living room, where Dean is still lying, lifeless and quiet, and steps out on the porch. The moon is big and yellow, bathing the junk yard in a sallow light.

Bobby thinks of the boy in his bed, and he remembers waking to the creak of the door one night long time ago, remembers a tiny, skinny seven year old crawling into his bed, shaking in the aftermath of a nightmare. He remembers him asking "When is Dean coming back?" in this scared little voice, remembers saying: "Soon, Sam, they'll be back very soon."

Remembers lying awake for the rest of the night, small hot body pressed against his own, curly hair tickling his neck, and he remembers praying that he'll always have an answer to this question.

A cloud moves in front of the moon, and Bobby sits down hard on the steps and cries.


End file.
